


Liberosis And Occhiolism Come Hand In Hand

by FandomTrash



Series: gross percico cousin incest au that literally nobody asked for [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Coca-Cola vs Pepsi just saying, Cousin Incest, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts (much), Headcannon: Percy gets poetic when he drinks Pepsi just saying, I Tried, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Pepsicola (Yes I am aware this is a HOMESTUCK tag but it's relevant), The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 03:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12027048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash/pseuds/FandomTrash
Summary: He had murmured softly, "Bruised knees and flower-crowns, Polaroids shots of LA and glass bottles," Into my hair, hand possessively resting on my hip; I can still remember the smile his mouth pressed just behind my ear when he finished, chuckle smooth and rhythmic like ocean waves.Wherein Nico and Percy watch the sunset on Percy's fire escape, musing over bittersweet melodies that are ocean waves and night skies.





	Liberosis And Occhiolism Come Hand In Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Liberosis:  
> the desire to care less about things—to loosen your grip on your life, to stop glancing behind you every few steps, afraid that someone will snatch it from you before you reach the end zone—rather to hold your life loosely and playfully, like a volleyball, keeping it in the air, with only quick fleeting interventions, bouncing freely in the hands of trusted friends, always in play.
> 
> Occhiolism:  
> the awareness of the smallness of your perspective, by which you couldn’t possibly draw any meaningful conclusions at all, about the world or the past or the complexities of culture, because although your life is an epic and unrepeatable anecdote, it still only has a sample size of one, and may end up being the control for a much wilder experiment happening in the next room.

There are many things that can define us for who we are: our tastes, our styles; how we speak, how we react to things. Sometimes, those simple things can be distorted from an outsider's perspective - a little too easily, a little too dramatically. I find myself pondering these things under a cotton candy sky, the sun hanging lowly as a red smudge that rests on the skyline. 

It's easy to forget yourself like that out here. 'Out here' being my cousin's fire escape on an eight-story apartment building. It's peaceful, for what it's worth, and the feel of his presence near me is calming. Him and his can of Pepsi, of which I will always scrunch my nose at. I'm more of a bottled-cola fan myself, condensation making my fingers and palms slippery against the glass. I know, I know; I need to get with the times, start buying normal cans or plastic bottles - but there's a pleasing aesthetic to it that I'll never get over. 

My cousin described me as an aesthetic one time, though most of it never really made sense to me, or as to why all the things he said would even relate to me in any sense. But the gesture had been sweet, ending with a light kiss on my forehead.

He had murmured softly, "Bruised knees and flower-crowns, Polaroids shots of LA and glass bottles," Into my hair, hand possessively resting on my hip; I can still remember the smile his mouth pressed just behind my ear when he finished, chuckle smooth and rhythmic like ocean waves. 

So now, as I bask in the setting sun's light, my older cousin presses up behind me: firm arms the grounding weight that come to wrap around waist. "Pretty sunset," He smiles, "Not as pretty as you, though." The comment forces a familiar heat to rise to my face, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Percy - my cousin - chuckles the same enticing way he always does, a hand rising to brush my cheek, "No," He muses aloud, "Definitely not as pretty as you." I nearly forgot what we were talking about, in all honesty; the way his green eyes blaze so bright is tantalizing, enamoring. I shrug off his compliment, never one for taking them graciously, only for him to tighten his hold on me. Lips brushing my ear, his voice drops low. Not in a husky, attractive way, either, though I guess to me he could sound like he gargled nails daily and I'd find it seductive - but his tone drops into a severe form of sincere that runs shivers down my spine, "Don't you agree? You're so pretty, Nico," He continues to croon, turning me to face him.

We're only separated by a few inches - two, maybe three - so it's far more obvious to Percy that I am, in fact, staring at the metal platform under our feet. I can feel the frown that settles onto his persuasive mouth, the rough pad of his thumb tilting my chin up as the crook of his pointer finger rests just below my lip. "Nico," The expression Percy holds is hard to look away from, yet elicits the need to do so in order to avoid those begging, brilliant eyes, "You believe me, don't you?" His voice still carries that near-threatening undertone, a silent demand for me to bend to his wishes. Nodding, I raise my own hand to curl around his wrist gently, "Yeah," I croak, "Yeah, I believe you Perce." There's a tense moment in which he stares at me, expressionless, giving way to nothing. Until he mutters, "But for some reason, _I_ don't believe _you_." 

Licking my lips, my gaze darts from the beguiling young man who clutches me closer, hand coming to rest on my back, to the still suburbia that lies beneath those crimson clouds. They look so far away, and I suppose they are, but in a more metaphorical sense that I will never reach them, could never dream of it. When I die, I'll lay cold and miserable six feet under the dirt with no hope of a second chance. Sighing, my eyes settle back onto Percy, a smile coming to life, "Well, then I guess we're both a little cynical." I get a grin for that, bright, blinding, and so much of the things I wish to wake up to every day of my life. Too bad that will never happen. 'Cousins? Good god, they're a disgrace!' I picture people saying, but know, in fact, they never will. Because what I fantasize them seeing is exactly that: a fantasy. Something that will never happen. But I have Percy for now, and that's all I can really be thankful for. That he is here, holding me close, pressing soft kisses to my forehead as I stare out to the sunset. "You're prettier, by far," He reiterates, turning from the view to languidly blink down at me. Pausing, he drinks long from his Pepsi, a subtle sigh of satisfaction following. The tips of my ears feel hot as I compare that sound to the one he makes after sucking me dry, to find that they almost match, if only for him to be more than satiated after our sexually frustrated fumblings than a chilled can of an over-popular brand.

A hum leaves me, quiet, almost inaudible; a melody carried away by the summer-evening breezes that weave through the mess of towering structures and stout two-story homes. I turn in Percy's arms, my back against his chest, the steady, soothing rhythm of his heart echoing along my vertebrae in a way that shouldn't be as alleviating as it is. Briefly reveling in the pacifying pulse, my fingernails clink against my bottle of cola - _tink, tink, tink._ "I may be pretty, but you, Percy, are by far the most stunning thing I'll ever see," I whisper, though I know he hears me: my head rests on his shoulder, my lips barely brushing his ear as the words flow from my mouth in a sober melancholy that doesn't fit the warm air or the tender mood. But he never seems to pick up on it; or if he does, it seems to just make his smiles grow ever fonder, ever softer, ever the more soothing in their appearance, though I know for a fact his words will forever be something sinister wrapped in silk for the benefit of my weak will and fragile esteem. "Sometimes I wonder how we're related," I continue, hand traveling to reach his spare one that has come to cling almost deceptively desperate to the hem of my shirt, "And I would like to be jealous, but I find that it's better if you got all the better genes." 

I hear a doubtful lilt to his unsure sound like he knows what direction I am turning this; in all honesty, I wouldn't be surprised. He knows more about than I'll ever hope of understanding. Instead of letting me continue, Percy grabs my bottle and directs it to my mouth, pushing it just enough to urge me to take a sip. A long sip. His fingers press against the bottom, forcing to me to keep drinking as he thinks. Percy's always been a thinker, it's why most people assumed he was 'slow', or overall just retarded. But neither of those are correct. He is simply a thinker, though not so simple, far more complex, in actuality. 

"There's nothing to be jealous about, Nico," Percy finally sighs. He maneuvers himself so that it is my side that rests against his chest. I find that he's always liked lacing his fingers just above my hip, inclining his head to nibble teasingly at my ear, "Not when you're something worthy of being framed and put in a gallery." I scrunch my nose at his analogy, accompanied by his amused chuckle, musings falling from his plush lips. Sunset, twilight now, has always been his most inspirational hours. "Though, you wouldn't like that, would you?" I shake my head when I realize he wanted a response. "No," He sighs, content, the  cold of his Pepsi can pressured against the sliver of skin that's exposed from the way he's hitched up my shirt, "No, you're not meant to be framed and put away," There's another one of those beautiful smiles, along with another sound of brief laughter. "Nico di Angelo is made for bruised knees and flower-crowns, Polaroid shots of LA and glass bottles." He recites, serene like the early summer days down on the beach, back when we were smaller. As if he was in his The Little Mermaid swim-trunks again, padding around on golden sand with a bucket sloshing with water and that divine little smile on his face. I wish we could go back to those days. Things were so much less... _complicated_. I suppose that would be the word, wouldn't it?

Angling my head, I fix my cousin with a befuddled smile, "What do you mean by that, anyways?" Percy shrugs, fingers carding through my unruly hair, "It is what it is. You are what you are, okay, and I love those things about you." For the umpteenth time this evening, I blush. I sigh, closing my eyes to the unfairly cute, meaningful look plastered onto his features. He bends a little, nuzzling into my neck, "C'mon, don't be like that. You know I'm right." Snorting, I roll my eyes, "So 'opinion' isn't a word you've come across, then?" He smirks at me, shaking his head, "Concerning you? Everything's fact." I don't know how to reply to that, so I just shake my head and turn to hide in his shoulder, "Oh yeah? What facts?" 

Percy hums, smiling at me, though the expression is sad in a way I can't really describe or identify. "They won't matter to you, so I won't waste breath." Nodding, I inhale the remnants of his cologne, the Old Spice musk that's just detectable over his oceanic aroma that'll never truly leave him from the very first time he visited the sea. I doubt I'll ever tire of his scent.

One of those broad, warm palms come to rest on my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek as he marvels at me with that oh-so magnificent, breathtaking smile that forces my heart to plummet into my stomach and simultaneously soars so high I fear for vertigo. "I love you," He murmurs, mouth only breadths away from my own, "Do you know that?" I only shrug, because really, I have my moments where I acquire the ability to doubt anything, conjure up uncertainties that come from a dark void I wonder whether many people carry in their day-to-day lives, or if it's just me and my thoughts. Percy gives a discerning purr, before finally granting me my will to live, to breathe:

He kisses me.

That toe-curling, dizzying way that you see in all those unrealistic movies. You know, those kisses that look like bliss, sweeping the girl off her feet, the guy holding her so close they could meld into one and still feel the need to be _closer_ \- hands buried in hair, aimlessly, helplessly tangled and neither protagonist able to bring themselves to care. Be it in the middle of the city, rain hammering like the beginning of a tsunami, people bustling by with their own lives, or with a beautiful full moon to shine down on them during a romantic, candle-lit dinner with that little checkered blanket and the fine bottle of wine in the bucket of ice on a well-planned evening that went exceedingly better than either of them realize. Sonder tends to be forgotten in those moments. As said moments fleet by so quickly, it all feels so _slow_ , so _deliberate_ \- his mouth moving on mine, breaths baited and shared messily, somebody's tongue on the other's teeth, for me to figure out who would be for me to end this momentous joy, and that is not a thing I am willing to do. Somewhere, one of his hands travels from its bruising grip on my hip to run up and down my spine under my shirt, tracing every bone I have to offer him. 

Yes, I think that's an appropriate analogy. He kisses me like in the movies.

As wrong as it may seem to imagine a boy kissing his cousin under a lilac sky filled with red suns and early stars, it is undeniably romantic in a sick sort of way you can't help but think about. This sort of infatuation with the idea of something forbidden, a romanticization of something sickening and vile and overall just _sin_. 'Forbidden love' is a valid example. Just let me have this, please? It may be immoral, but what I have with Percy is all that I live for.

And according to the way his face falls into desirable adoration, a voracious admiration, he feels the same way. Though, I'll never be sure, not truly, not wholly, but enough to give me hope for something more than this secretive little life we lead. "You're all that I see good in, in this universe," He whispers, like a well-kept secret that I have been bestowed the honor of hearing. He whispers, like if anybody else is to know, then he is surely a dead man, and for him to trust me as much as this is truly something special. He whispers, like he loves me, and his words are only for me, and for me to hear only, as that is how devout his love is to me. He whispers, like he couldn't bear to live more than a few feet apart from me, as if every time I depart from his small two-person apartment to return home he dies a little inside, only to be revived with the blood of _gods_ when I come into his field of sight.

If only.

"Did you know that?" Percy asks, possessive hand heavy between my shoulder blades, warm against my skin, calloused in comparison to the cotton fiber of my worn shirt. I blink, breath caught as I fumble for an answer. To what, I don't know, and that is the reason I stutter out, "Did I know what, Percy?" Superfluously supercilious is what somebody beyond us, in that little realm of epiphytic sonder, would describe my cousin's smile as. However, I know better. His smile, though patronizing in a playful way he adopted from our Golden Boy Jason, is soft and caring, doting in the way he inherited from his mother (my aunt.) His smile says: _You don't need to know anything as long as you're with me._ But I ignore it in favor of his distracted, half-dazed half-darling answer.

"That you hang my stars," He points to the significantly larger bundle of stars that shine above. "That you are the moon my tides so eagerly rock for," He punctuates it with a kiss to my nose, holding my face between his fingers and thumb. "You are the breath in my lungs, the _blood_ in my _veins_ , Nico, and I couldn't give you up for _anything_." It warms something pathetic and lonely inside me; it forces me to press onto my tiptoes, a breathy chuckle escaping me before I hug him tightly, nose buried in the crook of his neck, "Ditto," Is all I muster. It's enough for Percy, apparently, as he grips my thighs and tucks them around his waist. He mutters something about needing more meat, but I ignore him. I always do on these topics, since they quickly drop in favor of something more interesting to discuss. Minty breath wafting across my face, his firm fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise? This is the life I'd spend eternity repeating. The knowledge of how easily I bruise is exciting, an addictive sort of rush coming with the idea of pressing the discolored blotches later and feeling satisfaction bloom in my gut. I know my cousin likes it too - more on my neck and collarbone than anywhere else or the insides of my thighs and hips. 

His can of Pepsi has long since been forgotten; I regretfully say the same thing about my bottle of cola. Percy leans against the handrail, back to it, with me leaning heavily on his front. Peering down those eight stories below, I make out the spillage of frothy soda and shattered glass. His Pepsi can was more fortunate; though Ms Baker will suffer a sticky mess to clean up on the fifth floor. A giggle escapes me before I can realize it, a hiccuping sound that elicits a teasing 'aww' from Percy, "Do you want to go inside?" I hum, shrugging, before looking up at him.

Dark, lustful eyes, green almost blue in the dusk, and his grip getting increasingly harder by the second. The message reaches me, delayed, as I shift and feel the tent of his jeans against my crotch. I smirk, "Why? Need help with something?" Percy raises an eyebrow, nonchalant, though doing poorly to conceal the huskiness to his voice, tempting, "Only if you're willing," I can hear the optional in his wording, how he's offering for me to join him, but there is no necessity in doing so. Licking my lips, I shift in his hold, thinking through the offer. Whilst on any other day, I may have jumped his bones with excitement, the haunting thought of the moment being my last time with him inducing me to pursue the invitation, this time I roll my shoulders a little; halting, hesitant. Percy seems to sense this, eyes narrowing with the curiosity of what's going on inside my head. I rest my chin on his shoulder, looking out to the indigo skies, thinking back to all those moments we shared. In the bath, soft, slow, relaxed by the scented oils Percy had spent money on for that special evening. In the living-room, on the couch; rough, fast, full of adrenaline of beating him at Mario Kart, all his frustration of losing pouring into that heated session. In the bedroom, playful, learning each other, memorizing those special places that loved to be bitten or sucked at; our first time. 

Finally, I nod, grinning as I grind down against Percy's arousal flirtatiously, "Be kind," I warn him, "But I want you to wreck me."

That's word enough for him, as he carries me back through the window, rolling clumsily onto his blue sheets that smell like his mother's cheap, lavender detergent that she's been using since the day she got divorced, to rid the bedding of her husband's citrus reign over the apartment. We laugh as loud as we want, since nobody's ever home on Sundays, and find amusement in the fumbling of clothes being stripped and thrown hazardously into a corner. The way his hands make their paths down my sides is ticklish, yet sweet, in how he remembers to squeeze my waist just so before he kisses a wet trail from my neck to my chest. His moans are like music, groans even better as they reverberate under my skin, rattle around in my rib-cage like some insatiable beast trying to break free. I suppose that would be a suitable description of Percy, as I hold him to me, legs around his waist as he gropes around in his nightstand.

And if I scream loud enough for my throat to grow hoarse, if he thrusts so hard against the back of my thighs that they glow bright red, if when he hits that spot _just so_ and everything blurs white almost immediately, then nobody has to know.

And if he tears up a little as he collapses on top of me, sappy smile stretching his face so wide as his hand comes to rest above my heartbeat, with the afterglow slurred words of, "God, I fucking love you," Kissed against my shoulder, then nobody has to know.

And if I count down the days until he realizes what we're doing and hates the very guts that I would give up for him, if I know that somewhere, he recognizes that what we have is vitriolic, destructive, vindictively _fantastic_ in an unhealthy way that no human should be able to bask in the glory of, then he doesn't have to know. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys; so I know this isn't much, but I actually had a lot of fun writing this up, despite it only being 3K. I dunno, it's short and bittersweet, and I've been awkwardly digging Incest Percico right now. I have no idea why, but I might end up posting a few more like this. I really enjoy this intellectual/semi-poetic dynamic the pair have in this, and it works as really good material as a drabble series, too.
> 
> Just to clear things up: Percy is 19, Nico is 16//That's why it says 'underage' in the tags, because I don't know if New York as Romeo and Juliet laws, or the age laws at all over there, and I'm too lazy to actually go research it. So yeah, when it says Percy is a young man, it's because in this he is, whilst Nico is a lil' cinnamon roll worrying about his incestual relationship with his goddamn cousin. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you guys liked it. Comments are always appreciated, I love hearing from you guys!


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